


Work

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-07
Updated: 2011-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-15 11:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the duration of a case Sherlock will put all other concerns aside: afterwards he’s quite content to be relatively human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Work

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat, and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

They’ve barely settled in to their seats, squeezing in past the commuters without reservations, when Sherlock starts rapidly texting. Lestrade sighs and looks out of the window at the darkening sky. The case is over: it’s lasted the best part of a week and necessitated an overnight stay half way across the country. Lestrade is just looking forward to going home. He’s certainly in no mood for yet more criminal activity that must be dealt with right now. Thankfully, Sherlock’s frantic activity stops abruptly, though that alone is enough to worry Lestrade. He glances over at Sherlock and is grateful to note that Sherlock actually seems to be setting his phone to silent. Whatever great criminal investigations are to come, they can wait till Lestrade’s had a decent night sleep.

Sherlock slides his phone into a pocket and then seems to be digging about for something else. Out of a lack of anything to see out of the window anymore, Lestrade watches. Sherlock removes a small flat plastic wrapper from his pocket. It’s already been torn open but he fishes about inside for a moment, before withdrawing two pieces of plastic backing. It takes Lestrade a moment to realise that the packet is the sort that usually come with nicotine patches. Setting the packet and the plastic backing down carefully on the table, Sherlock reaches beneath his coat, at shoulder height this time and when he withdraws his hand he’s holding a nicotine patch. He sticks the plastic backing to it and puts it back into its wrapper, then returns the entire thing to a pocket.

“Six hours.” Sherlock says calmly.  
“Oh?”  
“I can wear it for another twelve.”

Trust Sherlock of all people to make such careful notation of that sort of thing. Lestrade uses nicotine patches too but all he tends to make a note of is that he’s put one on in the morning and taken it off to throw out when he gets home. Making some vague sound of agreement, Lestrade turns his attention back to the lights he can see from the window. It’s dark enough now that all he can pick out are the street lights and office windows and little else.

The train pulls away from the station smoothly and Lestrade is aware that he’s no longer really seeing anything. He’s staring into that middle distance familiar to all tired travellers coming home from a long day’s work. Around them the carriage is quiet, which is why Lestrade actually hears Sherlock’s stifled yawn. Lestrade smiles to himself: it’s proof enough that Sherlock is human, no matter how much he might pretend otherwise. The second, more obvious, yawn that follows corroborates the fact, as does the distinct sound of Sherlock’s stomach rumbling, and Lestrade realises that he can’t recall the last time he saw Sherlock eat.

“When did you-“  
“Breakfast.” Sherlock replies, quietly, sleepily.  
“This morning?” Lestrade has his suspicions.  
“Of course.”  
“I didn’t see you in the cafe downstairs.”  
“Granola bar.”

Lestrade shakes his head slightly. They didn’t have time for lunch, but he had made a point of grabbing a sandwich around about the right time for it. Sherlock hadn’t eaten anything then, protesting that digestion slowed him down.

“Dinner when we get back.” Lestrade admonishes.

Sherlock doesn’t reply and Lestrade is about to insist when Sherlock’s head drops onto his shoulder. Lestrade decides to take the sleepy mutter that follows as assent.

Of course it’s only now that Sherlock lets regular physical responses take over. He’s been running on nicotine and coffee for at least a week now. Lestrade tries to push aside his worry at that and remind himself that at least Sherlock has been eating, if only in small amounts, though he can’t help but wonder how much sleep Sherlock’s had as well. It’s taken him mere minutes to fall asleep upon removing the nicotine patch that’s been keeping him alert. It’s also been suppressing his appetite, Lestrade knows, which is all the more reason to get Sherlock fed when they get back to London, before another case can come along and he’s once again using stimulants to override whatever sleep and nutrients his body requires.

The rest of the journey is uneventful, and Lestrade is unsurprised to find that, when the ticket inspector reaches them, he somehow has both their tickets. Sherlock doesn’t wake, even as Lestrade tries to find said tickets, despite the slight jostling.

Lestrade wakes Sherlock up enough to get him off the train when they reach Euston but by then he looks practically dead on his feet. Lestrade frowns up at the large sign that indicates the stairway down to the underground and drags Sherlock out to the taxi rank instead. It’s late enough that they’d probably miss the last train to Loughborough Junction anyway, and Sherlock is teetering precariously enough on his feet that Lestrade doesn’t want to risk attempting to get him down to Victoria and then onto a train to Denmark Hill.

“I’d probably end up carrying you down the road.” Lestrade complains, half-heartedly, to a sleeping Sherlock in the taxi home.

Even getting out of the taxi, Lestrade has to more or less haul Sherlock along, and then keep hold of him for fear of he might simply topple over onto the pavement otherwise. At least Sherlock is compliant, which is something Lestrade is eminently grateful for, and they make it inside without incident. Sherlock gravitates towards the living room couch, presumably by sonar, since, to Lestrade at any rate, his eyes appear mostly closed. He collapses on to couch with a contented sigh.

Having safely made it back, the next issue is procuring dinner. Lestrade is hungry enough that he doesn’t want to wait the obligatory half hour for pizza delivery, and even if he could convince himself to wait, he’s not entirely certain that Sherlock wouldn’t have suffocated on the couch cushions by then. At least a quick call to the local chippie, where they recognise his voice on the phone by now, is all that’s needed to resolve the matter, despite their officially being closed already by that time of the night. He leaves Sherlock sleeping and makes the usual ten minute drive there and back in about seven.

When he returns with two bundles of pie and chips, and saveloy and chips, respectively, it’s to find the living room empty. Sherlock’s coat lies on the couch and for a moment Lestrade is genuinely at a lost as to where Sherlock may have gone. The pair of boots sat neatly beside the couch suggest that Sherlock hasn’t gone far of course, and thus having eliminated the possibility of Sherlock having upped and left, Lestrade is left with the seemingly improbable as the only solution. Thought, Lestrade does note, that having made his way upstairs, food still tucked under one arm, somehow, once he pushes open the bedroom door, it doesn’t seem quite so impossible a situation to find Sherlock curled up in his bed.

Lestrade turns on the light. “Come on, you, have something to eat at least.”

Lestrade drapes his coat over a chair, kicks off his shoes and settles himself on the bed to eat. There’s no chance of their relocating back downstairs now, which Lestrade tells himself is fine, because he’s not at all having trouble concentrating on his food now that he’s noticed that Sherlock’s trousers are folded neatly on the dressing table. Sherlock, completely unselfconscious about the situation, props himself up against the headboard and eats without comment. They finish eating in silence and Lestrade finds himself crumpling the greasy paper up with more force than necessary as he contemplates spending the night on his own couch. He picks up the ball of paper and turns off the light as Sherlock lies back down again. He makes it down to the kitchen to throw said ball of rubbish away and then realises that his phone is still on upstairs.

This time, Lestrade doesn’t turn on the light as he enters the bedroom and instead fumbles for his phone in his coat pocket in the dark. He turns his phone off as the duvet is thrown back.

“Come to bed.” Sherlock says calmly, as if it’s the most natural invitation in the world.

Lestrade’s glad that the darkness hides his wry smile, especially when he eases himself under the covers and immediately has Sherlock plastered to his side.

 

It takes another year for a similar case, necessitating an overnight stay, to crop up, but this time he and Sherlock aren’t alone on their journey home. This time John sits opposite Lestrade, looking highly amused at the sight in front of him. Sherlock is again asleep, head resting on Lestrade’s shoulder and Lestrade is doing his best not to appear obviously smug about that fact.

“Married to his work.” John mutters, laughing softly.  
“I resent the implication that I’m work.” Lestrade returns with a grin.

Beside him, Sherlock mutters something in his sleep and curls a hand around Lestrade’s arm securely. Lestrade is pretty certain that he hears the word ‘work’ somewhere in Sherlock’s sleepy mumbling.

**Author's Note:**

> The last train from St Pancras to Loughborough Junction is at 22:06.  
> Presumably, if Lestrade lives in Herne Hill, the chippie might well be Olley's Fish Experience which closes at 10:30 pm.


End file.
